


A Passing Fancy

by sasha_b



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Aramis is sad, Athos helps, BrOT4, F/M, Gen, I tried to be humorous but it didn't work, Kink Meme, Porthos and d'Artagnan bond, Spoilers, day in the life fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2300294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Musketeer business.  Aramis, Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan do what they must.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Passing Fancy

**Author's Note:**

> So the idea for this fic was based on a prompt I found on the Dreamwidth Musketeers kink meme, wherein the OP wanted a humor fic using prompted funny lines. I thought this would be a good idea, except I had forgotten I can't do straight humor. The fic here is the end result. I know it's not exactly what the OP asked for and I'm sorry for that, but I hope some of this is enjoyed anyway.
> 
> I am a big "day in the life" type writer and this is just that. Set after the ending of season one, so all episodes are fair game for spoilers.

Aramis stares at the small lake. Night is coming, but the sun has barely set and he notes the flickering of light off its wavering surface; fairies dancing under the water. He snorts and rests his hands on his hips; his hat sits at a cocked angle at the back of his head. He’s sweaty in his greatcoat but he doesn’t want to take it off – night _is_ on the way and it will be cooler. Aside, he wants to keep his various weapons close at hand, and his baldric isn’t heavy. And he’s rather proud of it. So he wears it.

Athos is next to him; the other man’s boots had crunched in the fall leaves on his approach, but Aramis keeps staring at the lake and doesn’t turn his head. Athos’ breathing is quiet as the other man is, his very large and arresting personality and grace of soul tucked inside his dark jacket, hidden behind his own baldric and rapier and guns and lowered hat, all feathers and leather and buckles and Aramis sighs, finally turning towards Athos as the twinkling fairy lights on the water sting his eyes.

“What do I do?” He thinks about Anne – the queen – and what she’d said to him in the side court at the palace.

_Just like his father._

“What can you do? Nothing.” Athos’ voice is low and rumbling and he takes his turn staring at the lake, their horses nickering back and forth behind them. The wind picks up and blows Aramis’ hat, tossing the feathers and forcing him to raise a hand and catch it as it blows forward over his brow, his coat creaking with the motion, but instead of slipping it back on, he holds it in his hands, turning it over and over as he’s way too wont to do. When nervous, some would say, but not Aramis.

“The cardinal suspects, I think,” Aramis says, flipping his hat back and forth. Athos’ hand on his arm stops him from doing it again – he twists his mouth and steps away from the other man, toward his horse and away from the intense gaze of his friend. “Not that he can outright accuse the queen of adultery.”

Athos follows him and grasps his shoulder. Night birds and crickets begin to cry and Aramis is forced to look at Athos – as best he can with the other man’s hat lowered to cover most of his eyes. “Don’t say that outloud, Aramis. Don’t even think it, no matter where we might be. The cardinal has eyes everywhere,” Athos reaches a hand up toward his neck as he speaks, but then lowers it when he realizes the necklace he’s looking for is not there. His face pinches and Aramis sighs again and shakes his head.

“I am sorry for that, Athos,” he murmurs, pointing a gloved finger at Athos’ empty neck, and the other man merely nods.

“I will not endanger us needlessly, you know,” Aramis adds, a bit tetchily. He slaps his hat on his thighs to remove the dust he’s sure is there from the wind, and slipping easily on top of his horse’s back, clicks to the stallion as Athos does the same.

The moon is at the edge of the clearing where they’ve stopped, and the lake is crystal and diamond and the stars are winking and the wind is cool and Aramis hates pretty much everything.

He squints his eyes at Athos, who’s moved his hat back from his forehead and Aramis’ mouth twitches, just slightly. “You do realize,” he says suddenly as they stare at one another, “that wasn’t the worst thing you’ve caught me doing, Athos.”

Athos doesn’t suppress his snort, and Aramis allows the twitch to blossom into a full-blown smile. He shouts to his horse, and Athos follows him, the lake and it’s fairy lights left in their dust.

They ride as fast as possible toward the garrison and some semblance of normalcy –

 

“Would you rather be shot, or stabbed?”

“What?” shouts Porthos from atop his horse; he’s riding in circles and has tightened the reins, his mount snorting and trying to fight him, but Porthos is certain this horse is worthy enough to show, and he’s going to show it, damn it. Even if he can’t, it can be the best horse at the musketeer garrison, and it’s his, and he can make it as beautiful as he –

“Would you rather be shot, or stabbed?” d’Artagnan repeats, his voice taking on that edge of almost hysteria that makes Porthos want to slap his mouth, if only to see if the boy can dare to take him on in retaliation. He smiles grimly as he rides past the younger man, and allows the chilly wind to toss the braided edge of the scarf he wears over his shoulder. He thinks of Flea suddenly – where had that come from? – and her tiny fingers combing through his loose hair, teasing him about the curl. He yanks a bit too hard on his reins and turns quickly, his horse complaining and bucking and the leather of the bridle is jerked from his fingers as a loose bit of fabric (someone’s left over cloak, most likely) is tossed in the night breeze in front of his mount –

Porthos is on his ass in the dirt and his horse, standing over him, still as stone, reins hanging mockingly into Porthos’ face, actually squints its eye at him as he glares up at it, back sore, elbow aching, scarf fallen off his head as he lies there, staring at the animal that had just dared to buck him off.

D’Artagnan’s laugh is barking and like a shot from a pistol and Porthos turns to fire his glare at the boy – he’s going to beg for Porthos to stop hitting him this time – when the horse steps neatly over him and stops at the trough full of hay the boys in charge of the stable have set up. It begins to munch placidly as Porthos falls onto his back, arms spread, d’Artagnan’s laughter grating in his ears.

“I think my horse hates me,” Porthos grits as the boy finally crosses to him and puts out a hand – Porthos contemplates jerking d’Artagnan to the ground and kicking him just for the fun of it – but he grudgingly allows for the help and stands, knocking the dust off his pants with his hands. He fixes his head scarf and eyes the grandstanding animal that had bucked him off, hands on his hips, dark eyes glinting, amusement creeping over his features, making the scar over his eye crinkle at an odd angle.

“I’d say you’re right,” d’Artagnan muses, holding his hairless chin in his fingers. “But at least the beast knows what side his bread is buttered on.” He jerks a hand at the horse, where it’s eating an apple from the fingers of the stable boy on duty. “No dummy, he.”

Porthos’ left eyebrow cants at a dangerous tilt and he grins, all white teeth and turns to d’Artagnan, who rapidly wishes he hadn’t left his sword sitting on their eating table. “So,” Porthos says loudly, the grin growing larger, “shot or stabbed?”

Treville’s voice bellows at them out his office window, and they both sigh (d’Artagnan with relief, Porthos with disappointment) and retreat up the stairs, leaving the bastard hungry horse with its desired dinner –

 

Athos and Aramis rein in past midnight, and the garrison is silent, save for the lackey Grimaud who is too wordy for Athos’ taste. The lackey smiles and opens his mouth to speak, but Athos tilts his head up, staring at the lad from under his hat, and Grimaud shuts his mouth with a terrified clack.

They dismount with a lot of dust and creaking of leather and Athos silently follows Aramis to the street, and both men turn in the direction of their own apartments, which happen to be in the same area. Both men stay silent until they arrive at the turn to Athos’ humble rooms (Athos thinking on the bottle of slightly expensive red he’s got hidden for himself later) when Aramis pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers and shakes his head.

“I cannot do _nothing_ ,” he says in a small voice, the normal timbre of his speech masked by his distraught mood. “I love – “

“If _I_ were the queen,” Athos interrupts, putting his hand on Aramis’ shoulder, almost able to feel the other man’s flustered heartbeat through the fabric, the moon coming uncovered from a cloud and blinding him, “I would stay silent. As you know she will. As you know she must. This might save her, Aramis,” he adds, lowering his voice, pulling Aramis closer to the door to his apartments.

“You have to let this go.” Athos knows better than most what obsession can do to a person. And Aramis cannot _love_ the queen, for she is the queen and not a woman after all. Definitely not a woman Aramis can consort with. Ever again.

Athos’ left hand rises, searching for the necklace he no longer wears. Aramis snorts and crosses his arms, meeting Athos’ clear green eyes from under his hat, his own gaze narrowed and flat. He can’t see a solution here. And yet. Athos is right and he has no choice, but he hates it and despite what he knows to be the right answer, he thinks he actually does lo-

“You don’t,” Athos adds. He can’t possibly know what Aramis is thinking, and he doesn’t finish the sentence, but Aramis knows what two words are missing from that sharp statement and he finds himself angry again, angry at Athos for being in the right, angry at the damn (he asks God to forgive him for that blasphemy) cardinal who is obviously Satan incarnate in his evilness, and he’s angry at the queen, Anne, who didn’t mean to make him fall in love with her and by the gods, he’s going to have a child.

With someone that can never be with him, as he and Isabelle might have been.

He swallows harshly, his eyes stinging with the thought of that name – he’d gotten her killed twice, really – and reaches for his pistol, feeling the grip even as Athos looks at him, the expression on the other musketeer’s face readable to Aramis even in the gloom.

He hates that Athos can silence him with a single _don’t do this Aramis, or you will be sorry._

He closes his eyes. “I don’t,” he murmurs back.

Athos says nothing, but the tiny quick smile on his face is enough.

They grasp hands and part and Aramis continues the short trek to his rooms. While Athos’ thoughts may be on wine and his own recent losses, Aramis contents himself with the heavy weight of the queen’s cross that lies around his neck and the idea that the cardinal will not win this from him, not this round –

 

Morning comes too quickly and all four men are gathered in the courtyard of Treville’s musketeer garrison and all are subdued save d’Artagnan, even though the boy has to be thinking of Constance and what he himself cannot have. The sun is watery but it looks to be brilliant weather, and Athos sips from a mug of something the now silent Grimaud has brought him, his gloved hands resting unmoving next to his unsheathed sword on the table before him.

Porthos has finished telling Aramis about his fall from his horse the previous day, Aramis smiling and clapping Porthos on the shoulder, despite the fact the grin does not reach his eyes. He is tired and Athos touches him on the top of the knee when the other men are looking to something else as the garrison begins to fill with uniformed men, the shouting of Treville no doubt soon to be heard.

  
“You look wan,” he stats baldly. Athos doesn’t ever pull punches, although this time Aramis wished his friend were better with tact. The suns rays hit them and he drains the last of his drink, knowing Treville will be calling in a moment.  He scrubs a hand through his curls, the tangles in them snagging his fingers.

“Do I have too much hair?” Aramis blurts, dropping his hand to the table, and rests his chin in his hand. “I think to rip it out, one of these fine days.” He can feel Athos’ burning gaze on him, the other man the only one to know what’s really going through his melancholic mind, but Porthos’ rumbling laugh cuts off the rest of whatever he was going to say. “I can trim it for you, if you’d like a professional look.” Porthos mimes scissors with his fingers, and Aramis snorts indignantly. His hands still tremble but Porthos’ expectant, humorous look brings some color back to Aramis’ cheeks –

“You four. My office. Now.”

Aramis stands and doesn’t answer Athos’ or Porthos’ questions. The others gradually get up as well, Athos’ fingers fluttering about his neck briefly, d’Artagnan tugging at the shirt Constance had made for him in the days before he’d had to be apart from her, Porthos settling his scarf about his head, the scarf that had been Flea’s many years ago. Porthos sighs heavily and rubs his aching hip, the bruise from his fall off the horse impressive and annoying. He adjusts his boot tops and rubs at his hip again.

Athos sheathes his sword and moves to the stairs. The other men stand stock still behind him, watching him. He looks down at them, the normal brightness of his eyes hidden by the sharp brim of his hat.

“For honor, remember.”

The smile that hits Aramis’ face is brittle but there. “I can live with that,” he bites off, answering Athos, repeating his edict of before. They follow Athos up the stairs to Treville’s office, Aramis last, his eyes passing to catch sight of the spires of the giant cathedral of Notre Dame that fills the city with its ancient beauty. He wonders if God is mocking him by making him love a woman he can’t have.

And then Athos is calling him, and he turns back toward Treville’s door.

**Author's Note:**

> Requested phrases to be used:
> 
>   _Aramis: Do you think I have too much hair?_
> 
>   _Porthos: I think my horse hates me._
> 
> _d'Artagnan: Would you rather be shot or stabbed?_
> 
>   _Athos: If I were the queen…_
> 
>   _and one bonus request: let's face it - this is not the worst thing you've caught me doing._


End file.
